On Labor Day I visited the past, present and future all in one afternoon.

Sometimes, when you feel a nudge to do something, go ahead and do it.

That’s how I wound up at the city-owned Evergreen Cemetery, my first visit in more than four years, when I was initially struck by the historic site’s peacefulness and the beauty of its rolling hills, small paved roads perfect for walking, and deep forest feel.

On a late holiday afternoon, the temperature was perfectly balmy and the nostalgic, sepia-tinged light of late summer streamed through the tree canopy of evergreens, Colorado blue spruce, maple, ponderosa, pinions and Gambel oaks.

As I drove through the wrought iron gate I suddenly felt verklempt. Was I feeling the collective energy of thousands of mourners missing their beloveds? Possibly. The cemetery is around 150 years old, its location selected by city founder Brig. Gen. William J. Palmer, who chose it for its high bluff overlooking the city and its access to the El Paso Canal, which channeled water from Prospect Lake to the cemetery. Palmer himself is buried here, along with his wife, Mary “Queen” Palmer, and Marjorie Palmer Watt, one of his three daughters, and Marjorie’s husband.

The cemetery on this day was mostly vacant, save for the woman walking up and down the roads and a merry band of youths congregating near some headstones in the distance.

I thought about cemeteries and ghosts and if they exist do they hang out near where they’re buried? If they’re congregating anywhere, is it near their loved ones or where they spent the most time or loved life the most? Or maybe their energy remains where they died, especially if it was a particularly traumatic death, like a car wreck.

Which reminded me of an old friend who died a decade ago, much too young at 55. He left me with two ghost stories, the first of which was his own — where did you go, old friend? And the second was about the time he drove by a historic Civil War battle site and saw what looked like fully uniformed Civil War soldiers walking around. When he turned to look again they were gone.

But perhaps there’s a spirit or two taking a peaceful walk among the headstones, which is what I did for a couple of hours, reading between the lines engraved on headstones and trying to peek inside the shed-sized mausoleums bearing some of our city’s historical names, like Giddings and Lennox. Some headstones are straightforward, others speak in riddles. How did the two children, born a couple of years apart, both die at 18 months? And then their father a few years later. And did the wife whose husband died years before her ever find another great love? And the 26-year-old whose loved ones visited him on his August birthday and left behind a happy birthday balloon and synthetic flowers. How did he die? Forever mysteries.

As I wandered, I wished my father had a nearby headstone I could visit, where we could still work on our relationship, which I believe never ends, even though he’s been gone for almost two decades.

Bagpipes played intermittently somewhere in the distance, but mostly there was extreme quiet across the 220 acres.

Sitting in a graveyard, one is reminded to be grateful for life and all the years you’ve been lucky enough to receive, a much greater number than some of the dead who surround you. And as your bones walk over the thousands of bones in the earth, you feel sort of OK with the ravages of time on a human body because you are still earth side. Your particular bag of bones is still able to ambulate and connect with other bags of bones.

You still have time to fall in love, to eat a slice of cherry pie, to watch the September harvest moon rise, to stroke your dog’s velvety ears. You still have time to tell another of your secrets, to forgive yourself, to hear ghost stories, be amazed, feel awe and watch a great blue heron fly — its magnificently long body soaring overhead to more fruitful waters.

Cemeteries help you celebrate the earthly plane. And accept that the fate of those resting deep in the earth is also your fate, and there’s nothing to be done about it, no matter what invasive and ridiculous ways us humans invent to pretend we’re all not headed for the same end. Acceptance is easier than flailing against the dying of the light.

I don’t know what I want at the end of my life. I used to say I’d donate my body to science, like my mother has always requested, but I heard last year from an 80-something woman who inquired into the process that they’re all stocked up on bodies.

But really, I also might like my final nap to be somewhere specific because maybe somebody would like to have a spot to talk with me after I’m gone. And maybe I’ll show up to listen.

Contact the writer: 636-0270